Fade in, Fade out
by wittyness
Summary: "Fading back in with 'I love you' on the tip of his tongue and the sudden realization to what's been missing in his life." Warnings: Alcohol abuse,cursing, lewd language, Dante.
1. Chapter 1

You know you're high beyond belief when you think something along the lines of: where am I?

There are two cases of Where am I Syndrome. The first being if you have a wild night and wake up with a complete black-out of what happened. The second—which is far worse, in Dante's opinion—being when the black-out's fade in random intervals, one moment you're at a club and the next you're hunched over a curb outside. One moment you're hunched over a curb, the next you're cackling in the back of a taxi cab. One moment you're in the back of a taxi cab and the next you're in some unknown basement, fucking some unknown girl. This'll happen periodically throughout the night, one place to the next, with little recollection of what went on and not enough inhibitions to care.

Dante a born and bread club kid, learning the tricks of the trade from his older bother, living in his legendary party shadow. All the kids at school looked to him for excitement and adventure, thought he had all the answers to everything. He was The Kid, the one that was thought to be infallible, could get out of any situation unscathed. Hosted parties, crashed others, was notorious for sneaking into every nightclub up and down California, knew which raves were hot tickets, could charm any teacher (males included) into giving an extension, prided himself in being the cock king of Fortuna High.

Girls left and right throwing themselves onto his arm—one date, just one date. Trish said you fucked Lady, what's Lady have that I don't?—riding him in bed every weekend, screaming his name as moans bounced off the walls. With their tight dresses and caked on makeup, high pitched bitch sessions when he suddenly dropped off the side of the earth the next day. They all said it was his fault—his fault. His fault they were all so screwed up, his fault they felt dirty and used.

If it was so traumatizing, if it was his fault, then why did they all insist on parading around school, bragging about who they bagged last night—oh, yeah, it was huge! Totally not even kidding, I had him clutching the headboard for support—gossiping little whispers worse than any guy was capable of. Because...at least they kept it in the locker room.

But weeks later the fury never seemed to fail, they'd all come and make a scene, call him names and ask him why, why did he take their virtues? To which Dante always wanted to defend himself, remind them of how they danced around him, begging him to give them a chance, wore tight mini dresses that rode up when they walked too fast, pulled him into the nearest empty room and shoved him on the nearest empty surface, then point in their faces and ask them why, indeed. But he didn't, his best friend always held him back and shook his head, let the girl smack him across the face with hurt that any actress would envy, let them call him all the names in the book.

And for what? For another weekend of partying? Another nameless girl to fuck, another nearest empty something, another black out forgotten?

Pause.

Skip.

The video plays back again.


	2. Introducing Nero

Somewhere between a club, another club, five shots of vodka, two redbulls and some chick licking the side of his face, Dante started to wonder why. Why he did any of this. Why he was addicted to waking up in unknown places with unknown people. He thought about it too much, which he really shouldn't have done. Thinking about things and getting wasted don't go well together, the second you lose your inhibitions—you lose the ability to understand what's okay to say out loud and what's not, everything goes down hill and you turn into one of those erratic drunks that lye out in the middle of the sidewalk at four o'clock in the morning, sobbing to some local cat about how fucked up their life is.

Dante found that to be the foundation of his first downward spiral, eyes glazed over as he trudged through the club, shoving anyone in his path. He wasn't supposed to get piss drunk, not here—getting piss drunk was reserved for overrated high school parties with red plastic cups and shitty pop music. This was a carded club, with bars of people staring at him—like they knew, they knew he was just a stupid kid that didn't understand anything—and he'd simply flip them off while demanding another drink.

It was at this point that Nero came to the rescue, like he so often did, pulling his best friend from being slumped over the bar and leaving behind a hundred and a apology. He wondered if Nero knew why. Knew why they kept on doing this. Kept on doing things that were adherently self destructive. He also wondered why his best friend kept putting up with his bullshit. "C'mon. We're going home before somebody calls the cops."

Somewhere in the back of his alcohol hazed mind, Dante was agreeing. Somewhere—but it was buried deep, deep down, beyond the point that kept screaming random expletives "No! I d'wanna leave! Stop it! Stop it!" Whining, bitching, kid-like tantrums. This is what he'd been reduced to. Worse than those drunken girls that threw themselves at him. God, that made him feel sour. "I dun fells so good."

Nero guided him to the bathroom—the single in the very back they knew about, the one the employees used—at that point, rubbing his arms a bit too soothingly, he noted. It felt nice.

And Dante collapsed somewhere close to a toilet once the door shut, so many vivid colors spilling into the clean white bowl. Puke. Always smelled like puke. If it didn't smell like puke then it smelled like sex. Nothing was certain about partying but sex and puke. Like death and taxes.

He was sobbing for some unknown reason he really couldn't understand at that point. Sobbing and puking and confirming that thinking and getting wasted didn't mix. But he was lucky enough to have around the one person that wouldn't care. Whereas the other guys on his team would've punched him across the face and told him to man up. Man the fuck up, you pussy, I'll shove a tampon down your throat if you don't stop crying like a bitch. Be this. Be that. Be yourself as long as it's exactly what we want.

Except—Nero wasn't saying that.

He was murmuring soft, unmanly stabs at comfort. Are you alright? Are you alright? Make sure you're alright. You gonna puke again? Need some water? Breathe. Just breathe. I think you've had enough to drink for one night; we should head back to your place after this so you can lye down.

Dante couldn't decide what it was at that moment.

Maybe it was the intoxicatingly putrid smell of puke just inches from his nose. Maybe it was way the tiled floor felt underneath his ass or the way the alcohol still burned at the back of his throat. Or maybe, probably, it the way the vivid lights spread over his best friend's tan skin that made him blurt out something as crazy as, "You're pretty." The aim wasn't right—ignoring the fact that a guy isn't allowed to physically compliment another dude without their masculinity (sexuality) being called into question—using something like 'handsome' instead, would have at least left room for his dignity. But Dante was grasping at straws here, flopping back and forth like a fish out of water, not quite sure where his brain went and when it'll possibly be back.

"You're drunk." Clear cut. Straight with no humor. Like vodka without a chaser—the tone of voice stung.

"Yeah." He leaned forward, thought about it. Couldn't dig much more of an explanation for why or how he felt at that moment. Figured it didn't really matter at this point. "Yeah."

"And yourbreath smells like puke." Somewhere in the back of his mind he noted that it hadn't been 'and you're a guy' or even 'and you're my best friend.' Noted this the same time that he noted the way Nero rubbed his nose, the way his lip would twitch, the little mannerisms he acquired when he was nervous.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Thinking again. Always thinking. Too much thinking. Dante couldn't understand how he'd gotten here, how life turned into one black-out after another. Okay, well, he knew how he had gotten there—he just couldn't understand when he had gotten to this point of resentment. His older brother had done this, all of it, had partied the years away and came out reminiscing what once was. He loved it, was a legend around school, had done it all and made it sound glorious. But Dante didn't want it—didn't want any of it.

He wanted Nero, though, that much had become clear at the moment.

Again he comes back to the fact that drinking and thinking didn't mix. Because when you started thinking too hard, you start realizing things. When you start thinking too hard, your underlying emotions start taking charge. When you start thinking too hard, you'll ultimately say stupid things like, "I love you." It wasn't even a manly 'I love you, man' with a half hug and a blank face. It was a straight forward, romance worthy, pussy confession.

He'd be surprised if Nero didn't kick his drunken ass. He deserved it. God, did he deserve it.

"Yeah." Nose rubbed hard, lip twitching erratically. "Yeah, I know." His best friend held out a lone hand—Dante almost flinching in expectance of a fist—trying to half smile but failing when his lips wouldn't stop shaking. "Ready to go?"

Fucked. That's what he was. So, so fucked. And he wondered how much of this he would evenremember in the morning. Couldn't decide if he wanted to or not.

Dante simply said fuck it, figured Nero would do enough figuring out for the both of them.


	3. Last

The long period of time in which alcohol affects you is astounding.

Dante always looked at it as: if you get drunk, that's a full twenty-four hours down the drain.

There's the initial experience that hits like fire spreading across brush, swallowing the hillside up. It burns. Everywhere. In the back of your throat. The pit of your stomach. Underneath your veins as it threads through your blood stream. Alcohol is liquid fire, both metaphorically and literally.

Then there's the after-math, the charred remains of brush that crumbled under a simple touch. The terrible hang-over-from-hell morning. Puke, probably. Excruciating headache, definitely. Everything sounds too loud, like the volume's been turned way up. Your muscles ache. Your bones ache. You'll crave nothing for the next four hours but rest, water, and aspirin. Greasy food tastes like heaven—but seventy-five percent of the time your stomach will retreat in horror just from the suggestion, alone.

And somewhere in this huge mess is the in between.

That grueling moment that every experienced drunk faces, waking to a dark hour and a dark room, with only slightly better focus than just an hour or so before. Only half drunk, teetering on the edge, more sensible but still pretty dazed.

Here's the scene now: Dante waking to a couch that's fairly familiar by now, blinking owlishly at the only source of light streaming through the small basement window. The moon stared back, half carved out like a Cheshire Cat smile.

More blinking, trying to recall how he ended up here. The night faded in and out, whereas drugs have the power to conceive frighteningly clear flash-backs the day after—alcohol was never a sure thing, always tinged with a hazy quality. Always. His entire life was tinged with a hazy quality.

But Dante couldn't quite get a focus on the situation, he was still fading in and out, tried to remember if he had smoked a bowl or not, because, seriously, he doesn't remember ever fading this much on anything other than a dime and a self made bong hidden under his bed.

"How ya feeling?" The voice startled him, it probably shouldn't have, considering where he was—but it did. "Gonna puke?"

No, the first wave of nausea had resided…and the second wasn't due until daylight. He was good for now, however groggy Dante seriously felt at that moment. A shake of his head, then, "What time is it?"

"Four oh nine." Figures. Still a couple hours till sunrise. The hang-over hasn't even set in yet and he thought he might still feel a little drunk.

Dante tried lifting his body—only to fall back onto the ratty old couch with a grunt. Fuck, well, seems like his muscles were already aching, and with the alcohol half gone—the pain was only highlighted. Nero crawled over from his place on the rug, looking almost worried. "You alright?"

"Yeah. But how—how the hell did we end up in your basement?"

A shrug. "It was mostly me half dragging you out of one of the trendiest clubs in LA. And, you somehow managing to consume half the alcohol at their main bar. That was quite a feat, I'm surprised you haven't turned into a vegetable yet."

"Why?"

Nero blinked at the sudden question, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness, each of them shaded in with the silver glow of moonlight. "Why what?"

"Why do you put up with me?" He clarified.

Swiftly, Nero said, "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because," He gestured. To what—he wasn't sure. To everything, probably. To all the fake bullshit, all the mindless partying and every time he has to be dragged from some place in a drunken tantrum. The all consuming question of why. "Of this. Of all of this. Of me. I'm fucked up. This entire situation is fucked up. Why would you even put up with any of it?"

"You say that like I don't already know."

"Then why?" He pressed on. Why. The big Why, again. What if there wasn't really an answer? To any of this. What if there is no ultimate Why—it just simply is? He hoped there was, though. He hoped this wasn't all just pointless. He hoped that teenagers didn't actually do things like this simply because they really were all unintelligent, thrill seeking, apathetic, bundle of nerves.

"Because—because…be…" Dante watched the explanation die, watched it explode all over his best friend's face. Watched the nervous mannerism's come to life again, nose rubbing, lip twitching.

And suddenly—nothing mattered.

Nothing but the lips that sharply surged forward onto his. Nothing but the small exhales of a red nose hitting his face. Nothing but Nero—here and right now.

His brain told him to kiss back, so he did, hesitant pressure at first, then slowly evolving into confidence. Dante kissed many girls before—too many, he thought, and wished they'd never existed in the first place—but everything paled in comparison to this. So many differences, so, so many. Where a girl's lips were submissive and soft and always tasted fruity—a boy's lips were rough, demanding, and not afraid to take dominance.

That was weird, adjusting to the whole dominance issue. Clearly, Nero had the control here and—and did that make him the girl? What does that mean, exactly? He'll be taking it up the ass? He'll be parading around on Nero's arm? Wearing long summer dresses like a good little house wife? Wait. That's stupid. They're both boys, clearly. Neither of them had to choose. Though, how exactly did that work? A relationship without boy-girl dominance? Huh?

But, he really didn't have time to ask such pressing questions because he was fading again.

Fading out and fading in to find them heavily making out, tongues slithering, rubbing, spit coating lips, tastes mingling. (Vaguely, he noted there was still a hint of vomit on his breath. Christ.) Hands were roaming all over the place and Nero was on top of him now, pressing all of his weight onto Dante's hips, the pressure almost painful. His hands were dragging up the back of Nero's shirt, skin hot underneath as his fingertips pressed against the boy's spine. Nero took that as permission for his own hands to slip under the other's shirt, sliding up and down his sides, leaving behind trails of fire.

Fade out.

Fade in.

They're both completely shirt-less by now, progressing from heavy petting to full on groping. Grinding in ways that were utterly sinful. And his nipples—fuck, when had those become so sensitive? Two fingers were encircling one, around and around until a pinch where he let out an unmanly squeak. This was quickly followed by a tongue spreading over the abused spot, in apology. That earned a loud moan. Christ, but who moaned except athletes, porn stars or slutty chicks that tried too hard? And yet, the moaning continued, hands grasping tight bunches of hair as his breathing became more erratic by the second.

Fade out.

Fade in.

Clothes were shed, only their boxers remained. And now they were both moaning-apparently they fell into the athelete porn star slutty chick category. But Dante was too far gone to care at this point, still half drunk, making everything heightened—every touch sensitive. Clearly this is an insane situation, the back of his mind still argued, clearly this is only making every question more intricate than they really have to be. But the front of his mind was still screaming yes and shut the fuck up and yesyesyes. Dante decided the front of his mind had a much better argument. Yes, much better, he concluded when their boxers were slipped off and went flying somewhere across the room.

Fade out.

Fade in.

It was skin on skin now. So much heat, even in the middle of March. So much fire spreading faster than any alcohol ever could. Quick fixes. That's all they ever were, stupid quick fixes for long term problems. All those parties, drink after drink, trying to fill that unmanly void in the pit of his stomach. Quick fixes were nothing compared to what was happening right now. Two fingers pressing inside him, squirming around in time with him, moans and presses, all at the same time.

This—this was real.

The touches. The feeling. It was bursting inside of him. Exploding. His entire body screamed touch me. Touchmeplease.

Fade out.

Fade in.

Sex. If you would've asked him yesterday he would've said it felt good, something he did to get off, never really thought highly of the act, never really saw the need to. Sweaty, faceless, ways to get your rocks to the moon.

But now—now he understood.

Holy fuck did he understand. Clarity. Intensity. At this point he didn't care if he was the goddamn girl in the relationship or not, would gladly take it up the ass with a fucking shit-eating grin on his face. Because, shit, yeah it stung, felt like daggers at first. But Nero kept whispering, kept saying things those other girls never did, kept saying, "I love you. I love you so fucking much," over and over like a mantra. And Dante kept whispering it back or…well, he was whispering something, hoped it was reciprocation, at least.

Then, something was hit and it's like that burning had turned into fucking fireworks. He was seeing stars. And…ah. Nothing has ever felt this good in his life, just simple rocking, a large boy hand touching him intimately, almost completely sober but the clarity made everything that much better.

And somewhere down the line he was brought past the second star to the right and straight on till morning.

Ah.

He only faded one more time that night. Fading out post orgasm, confused as ever.

Fading back in with 'I love you' on the tip of his tongue and the sudden realization to what's been missing in his life.


End file.
